Chapter 1 (Justine)

Justine and Yvette survive a car crash mostly unharmed, but still in pain. They officially meet in the hospital room, managing to get in their first interactions.

Sometimes there are days where so much happens in what feels like so little time. Like a sitcom episode with a story that's too complicated and ambitious for its ten or twenty-minute runtime. Or a film that juggles eight different plot-lines at once, with no current plans for a sequel to touch upon them a bit more. I'm sure we all have those days, but today it was my turn. One moment I was in Pasadena, taking a drive to the nearest mall for some n****e pasties, and the next I was pretty much on my deathbed.

Obviously, the event that sent my day on a completely different and unexpected path had been a car accident, and my fellow victim and I happened to be lying in adjacent hospital beds, practically within arm's reach of each other. I barely had the strength to stay conscious, and the mere act of thinking was enough to cause a headache. The doctor had said none of my bones were broken, yet my whole body was still horrendously sore and I couldn't move, save for glancing around the hospital room.

During my immobilized search, I got a good look at my roommate, a woman who looked to be not only close to my age, but also in a similar condition: all but unconscious and ensnared by her own pain. Through my hazy vision, I could make out curled, medium-length amber hair in a beautiful shade that reminded me of maple syrup, splayed out haphazardly all over the pillow. Her skin had a slightly yellowish tint to it, straw-colored almost, and the one visible arm of hers that rested on top of the blankets looked almost statue-esque with how muscular it was. I'd probably be falling head over ankles right now if I wasn't hurting so badly. But nonetheless, there was a really hot girl nearby, and I would not rest until I'd at least made my presence known to her.

I'd always been a hopeless romantic. I knew I was a lesbian ever since I was thirteen years old, but growing up, there were barely any other lesbians or even bisexuals in my area. I'd spent the rest of my life up until this point looking for a partner in the way a hungry shark looks for food: circling up and snapping at anyone who piqued my interest, without any confirmation that they were what I was looking for until I'd already dug in. For every girl-loving girl I'd met, there were at least a dozen who I'd assumed were lesbian but turned out to be straight. As a result, I'd probably suffered more heartbreaks than the average woman in my demographic. Yet no matter how often I was set back by my own stupidity, I just never learned.

"Hey," was the weakened vocalization that escaped my lips. It sounded sudden yet satisfying to my ears, like the airtight seal being broken on a canister of fresh tennis balls.

"Hey," the stranger replied, frailly looking back at me. I was too pained to get a good look at her eyes, but I had an inkling that they were gorgeous.

"So... this is it, I guess?" I continued, eliciting a nod from my new acquaintance. "Two survivors of a car crash, both trapped in a hospital room and likely dying a slow and painful death in each other's presence."

"Yep." the stranger sighed. "Kind of a lame way to go out, though."

"If this is what dying feels like, then I'd have to say it's not quite as bad as I assumed. Then again, maybe the fact that I'm really enjoying the view before me is clouding my judgement," I said with an alluring smirk.

I felt like being a flirt. Hey, one of us had to make the first move. And judging by the blush that buttered her cheeks, she seemed to respond well to my little compliment. Maybe there was at least a glimmer of hope for my love life after all, assuming we both came out of this alive. I couldn't tell if her condition was the same as mine; probably wasn't, but it wasn't like me to immediately assume the worst.

For a while, we just lay there and had our talk, straining our voices and occasionally pausing to cringe as we each experienced aches in different areas of our bodies. Even so, our conversation was just enough to distract us from the immense pain we both shared. The only time it really flared up was whenever we managed to make each other laugh. As we chatted, I was able to pick up some interesting details, such as how deep and slightly throaty her voice was. Not necessarily masculine, but just a decibel or two lower than the perky, high-strung and sassy one I spoke with. I learned that she was from Malibu, California, and was passing through Pasadena on the way to her father's place after her mother threw her out, where that little incident had sidetracked her. I wanted to learn more, but it was clear we were both too tired to continue speaking.

"So, uh, I guess we should... exchange names?" the stranger asked.

"Sounds good to me. I'm Justine," I replied, painfully reaching an arm out for a handshake. "Justine Simmons."

"My name is Yvette." the stranger followed suit. "Yvette Osmanovic. It's Bosnian."

Locking hands marked the first time we would ever make physical contact. Yvette's hand was a lot softer than I assumed it would be. The well-defined arm that was attached to it gave the impression that she was always getting physical and exerting herself, yet her hand was as smooth as margarine, like she had some sort of addiction to lotion. Not that I was complaining; I could touch that hand all day.

We kept our hands interconnected for a while, before we both finally gave into our bodies and passed out. The last thing I remembered that day was us still touching, forming a fleshy connection between the both of our beds.